Chance Meetings
by SailorChronos1
Summary: Irene Ashby meets a fascinating yet deeply wounded man, and suggests to him that he seek therapy at her clinic. Little does she know that she might also need help in more ways than one.
1. Encounter

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meeting  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 1

March 2014

Spring in New York City was fickle. Some days the weather would be agreeable with warm sun and an earthy scent in the air. Other days the sky would be a sullen gray with a cold wind that cut through all but the most robust clothing.

Irene was enjoying a rare day off from her job as a massage therapist. Normally the business was completely booked with executives and computer programmers whose long hours of sitting in flimsy chairs wreaked havoc on their backs and shoulders. However even therapists needed time to themselves, and this day was almost perfect. It was a bit chilly on the East River waterfront. The sky was a brilliant blue with the occasional cloud scudding by in the breeze, and while the trees were still bereft of leaves there was a definite whiff of flowers blooming nearby. Boats of all sizes crisscrossed the choppy water.

She noticed that a man who stood at the low steel fence watching the waves seemed out of place. Although he was of average height and slim build, the three-piece suit and long overcoat that he wore practically shouted "wealthy". He started at the snapping of a pigeon's wings as it took off over the water. Everything about his stance and movements showed tension, as if he expected an attack to happen at any time.

Intrigued, she walked casually to his side and followed his gaze to the opposite shore of the river. Addressing him in an even, non-threatening tone, she said, "Sit in reverie, and watch the changing colour of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind."

"Longfellow," he responded in a similar tone, acknowledging her presence without moving. His light baritone voice was smooth, as if he spoke frequently. Perhaps he was a university professor. "All the beautiful sentiments in the world weigh less than a single lovely action," he said then, almost as a challenge.

She recognized the quote. "J.R. Lowell."

"You're familiar with the works of the Fireside Poets." It was a statement, but she heard the inquisitiveness in his voice.

"In passing; my mother was an English literature teacher and she made sure that I had a grasp of the basics." She looked at him and smiled. "Irene Ashby. It's nice to meet you."

He faced her, not by turning his head but by shifting his entire upper body, his brows knitting briefly as he did so. She could see that it was a much-practised movement, but his discomfort was evident. Obviously at some point in the past he had suffered a grievous injury and he was in pain.

Now that she had a clear view of him, her impression of the man grew. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses emphasized his blue eyes. He had a long oval face with short, spiky dark hair, and sideburns with a few flecks of gray. She judged his age to be mid-fifties.

"You may call me Mr. Wren." His phone warbled; after answering it and listening to the person on the other end, he slipped it back into a pocket. "I'm sorry, but I must be leaving. Good day, Ms. Ashby." He walked away with a pronounced limp.

That brief conversation served to whet Irene's curiosity. This Mr. Wren appeared to be an interesting man: wealthy, well-educated, and decisive. And given the injury he had, he could benefit a great deal from physical therapy, but it was possible that he never had time to seek it out. Idly she wondered if it would be a good idea to approach him with the suggestion.

That is, if she ever saw him again.

* * *

Several weeks passed and she had all but forgotten about the enigmatic Mr. Wren due to her busy schedule. However by some random chance, she happened to spot him early one morning as she made her daily loop of Roosevelt Park on her bicycle. He was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper.

She stopped in front of him and the squeak of the bike's brakes attracted his attention.

After a brief moment of recognition he nodded politely to her. "Good morning, Ms. Ashby," he said as he began to fold up his newspaper.

"Good morning to you also, Mr. Wren," she replied with a smile. "There's no need for you to get up; I need a break." She dismounted from the bike, set it upon its stand, and removed her helmet. As she did so, several locks of her greying blonde hair blew across her face, and she brushed them aside. "I'm glad to see you again. Forgive my presumption, but do you have a few moments to talk?"

He indicated that she could sit with him. "Please make it brief, Ms. Ashby. I'm currently engaged in a... rather difficult task."

Irene could see nothing difficult about reading a newspaper, unless he was referring to his job. However it wasn't her place to ask that. She sat next to him and pulled a business card from the pouch belt that she wore. "I noticed your limited range of motion the last time we met, and I thought you might benefit from therapy." As he glanced at the card she continued kindly, "Although it won't restore complete functionality, it can ease undue stiffness."

"Your concern is appreciated, Ms. Ashby," he said somewhat flatly, "but it's unnecessary." The set of his mouth made it clear that he found the subject distasteful.

She snorted quietly, being very familiar with this reaction. "I don't do 'that' type of work, Mr. Wren," she assured him while trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, "and I find it unfortunate that many people equate massage therapy with sexual favours. The business is legitimate and I have multiple references should you choose to inquire."

His expression softened and he consented to put her card in a pocket. "I cannot guarantee anything, as I am extremely busy."

"A man who dresses so elegantly and has an abiding interest in literature surely can appreciate the extent of human talent," she observed, and in further defense of her profession she added, "Massage is as much of an art form as sculpture or playing a musical instrument." She rose, smiled at him, and then put her helmet back on. "All I ask is that you consider it."

His eyes met hers and he gave the slightest of nods before picking up his newspaper and standing. The action was plainly meant as a dismissal of the type a professor or CEO might use, but it didn't ruffle her. She had dealt with many such people through her business; once they came through the door they were all the same to her. Kicking off her bicycle stand, she nodded to him. "Thank you, Mr. Wren," she said before riding away.


	2. Appointment

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 2

More time went by and Irene began to wonder if Mr. Wren had been truthful about considering her offer. But then out of the blue, the clinic's secretary informed her of a sudden change in her day's bookings.

"You won't believe this," the woman cooed as if relating a juicy piece of gossip. "A Mr. Wren called for an appointment and I said we were booked solid today. He offered twice our standard rate if he could see you specifically. So I cleared you from one to two o'clock this afternoon." She grinned. "Either he's rich, or he _really_ likes you for some reason."

"Shut up, Louise," Irene said with an amused shake of her head. "I met him at the park a few weeks ago and gave him my card."

"Oh sure," Louise drawled.

Irene waved at her to stop any further insinuations and entered her assigned room to prepare for the day's clients.

A few minutes before one o'clock, she was paged to the front desk. There she saw him, once again dressed in an expensive suit, with his overcoat draped over one arm. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wren," she greeted with a smile.

They exchanged pleasantries, although he pointedly ignored Louise's surreptitious glances as he filled out the information form that she handed to him. Then he followed Irene to her room, where she switched on a CD player loaded with soft music and explained how he should position himself on the massage table. "I'll leave the room and review the form while you undress to your comfort level."

She exited smoothly and closed the door, and then quickly noted his information. His address was an apartment in the Bowery, and he had no allergies or chronic conditions other than severe injuries to his back and hip as a result of a car crash. That certainly explained why he walked with a limp.

When she returned to the room, he was seated on the table and had removed only his jacket and waistcoat; his immaculately pressed white shirt was unbuttoned but remained on his shoulders. "Do you need more time?" she asked.

He inhaled sharply. "No, thank you. I had thought that perhaps now wouldn't be the best time for this."

Irene noted the man's general stiffness and white knuckles as he clenched his fists on his lap. He was undoubtedly conflicted, but he was making a great effort to keep a stoic appearance. What had happened to him had left deep emotional as well as physical scars; therefore she needed to ensure that she didn't damage him further. "I would like to help you, Mr. Wren," she said gently. "I've been told that I would make a good psychologist due to the fact that I'm a highly empathic person. Several people have called me 'dangerous' because I can help them feel comfortable enough that they're willing to tell me what they won't tell anyone else."

"Ms. Ashby, I am a very private person. What makes you think that I would be willing to talk to you, someone whom I hardly know?"

She tilted her head slightly as she considered her answer; unlike most of her clients he was extremely hard to read. "You are in pain. You're wealthy and secure, yet you feel the need to hold on to what you value so very tightly, because of what happened to you. Am I on the right track, Mr. Wren?"

He bowed his head for a moment, and then took a deep breath as he relaxed ever so slightly. "I help people," he said carefully. "However I've experienced great loss in the process. That pain," he looked straight at her, "is partly what enables me to continue."

Irene gazed at his light blue eyes for a moment. "I can see that you believe that. However your eyes say that you also need to suffer in order to make up for that loss." She laid her hand on his arm in reassurance. "You don't have to feel that way."

"We all have free will, Ms. Ashby." His eyes turned icy: she had hit a nerve. "With it comes great responsibility as well as great loss."

"I'm not minimizing your hardships, Mr. Wren. I'm only suggesting that you should let go of the guilt, or it will destroy you." While leaving him to think about that, she washed her hands at the sink on the far side of the room and placed several cloths and towels on a warming pad. "Now then, this won't take long," she assured him. "Are you willing to try? If you become uncomfortable for any reason, you can tell me."

"Very well," he said, his voice lowered to almost a whisper.

"Thank you." Deftly she guided him into a supine position on his stomach and adjusted the headrest to an appropriate angle. "Since you're hurt already and I don't know how much manipulation you will be able to tolerate, I'll only do a basic rub-down." She eased off his shirt and involuntarily gasped as she saw his upper back. His undershirt couldn't hide the large raised scar at the base of his neck, white against pale skin that hadn't seen sunlight in ages. After briskly rubbing her hands together for a few seconds to warm them up, she slathered them with fragrant oil, and then lightly laid her right hand on that scar.

He flinched and drew a quick breath, his hands tightening on the edge of the table, but he didn't speak. Irene realized that this was most likely the first time that anyone other than himself or a doctor had seen and touched that horrible injury. Her fingertips felt hardness just under the skin that was most likely a metal rod that held his cervical vertebrae in place. No wonder he couldn't turn his head.

"Oh, Mr. Wren," she breathed, "I'm so sorry." He was now shivering, not from cold, but from nervousness. It amazed her that he was allowing her to touch him at all, given the circumstances, and so she had to proceed with caution. Ever so carefully she began to knead the extremely taut muscles in his neck, circumventing the area where the rod lay.

"There's no need to apolo- ah!" His exclamation of surprise became an incredulous sigh. "What did you do?"

"Trade secret," she joked amicably. "Actually, I released a pressure point in your neck. Does that feel better?" She didn't really have to ask, since a remarkable change had come over him. He was no longer trembling and much more at ease.

"Immensely." His voice filled with wonder. "It's still painful, but I believe I haven't felt this restful for a very long time."

She smiled and proceeded to the trapezius muscles. "Tension can cause all sorts of problems. I'm surprised that your doctor didn't recommend massage therapy." Pausing, she requested, "I'd like you to remove your undershirt, please. However if you'd rather not, I can work around it."

After a moment's hesitation he peeled it off and put it aside, and then resettled himself. His uncovered back bore more scars, although none as serious as the one on his neck. Irene had to fight back another wave of sympathy along with the sudden desire to trace every scar with her fingertips and make it better. "Will you tell me what happened?" she asked, hoping that the question wouldn't shatter the fragile trust that she had gained so far. Writing the information on a health form was one thing, but talking was another matter entirely.

"I dislike speaking about it," he replied, all businesslike once again, but then he relented. "I have already shown you more than most people have a right to know. Would you entrust me with something from your past that few people know of?"

"An exchange, then," she agreed. "That's fair enough." Right away she thought of what to tell him; and as she continued to firmly probe the muscles across his shoulders and upper back, she related her story. "During the summer before I entered university, my boyfriend Robert was vacationing out of the country. One of our mutual friends was a man named Johan. He was twice my age, married with two kids, and enjoyed riding motorcycles. After a party that we had both attended, he offered me a ride home on his bike, and we got to talking. His marriage was deteriorating and he needed someone to confide in. We became friends and he would invite me out for rides on his bike on a regular basis."

Mr. Wren guessed, "I assume you became more than friends."

"One evening we both realized that we had come to care about each other deeply," she confirmed. "We had connected on a purely mental level. However I insisted that I was not going to become the 'other woman' and that if he didn't want to break up his family we should stop seeing each other before we allowed our relationship to become physical. Because once that happens, for me at least, the other person remains in my heart and it's very difficult for me to let go." She had finished with his back by this point, and she wiped her oily hands on a cloth that hung from her belt.

"May I ask what happened to him?" His voice held genuine concern.

"The company he worked for transferred him," she replied as she crossed the room to pick up a fresh cloth from the warming pad. Despite the passage of years, she still felt a little sad for what might have been. "Before he moved away, he sent a letter thanking me for being such a good friend and he admitted that he was in love with me. I never saw him again. The last I heard of him, he had stayed with his wife."

"What about your boyfriend? Did you tell him what had transpired during his absence?"

"No, I didn't get the chance. When he returned from his vacation he told me that he had met another woman over there and he was going to move there to be with her. I was devastated and told him to get out of my life." She laughed mirthlessly. "It took me years to recover emotionally. So you see, that's why I'm dangerous: not only to others, but to myself. It's also one of the real reasons why I don't do those 'other' massages. I can't disassociate myself from the physical act; therefore I won't put myself into that situation." She took a deep breath to center herself. Then, burying her resurgent emotions with professionalism, she began to rub down his back to remove the oil. "I'm almost done, Mr. Wren."

He suddenly caught her hand, and she stopped her ministrations. "Harold," he said softly. "My name is Harold."

She smiled gratefully. At last he had chosen to trust her enough to divulge his first name. "Thank you... Harold."


	3. Surprises

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 3: Surprises

After that first session Mr. Wren began to visit the clinic weekly, but not always on the same day. His explanation was that he worked for an insurance company, but the job wasn't of the nine-to-five sort and frequently he was required to visit clients at all hours of the day or evening. When Irene commented that such a schedule must make it difficult for him to be with his family, he didn't speak for a long time; she discerned that it was too painful a topic for him to talk about and forbore to mention it again.

The following week, after she told him about how one night her psychopathic ex-husband had mistaken her extreme fatigue for being under the influence of drugs and threatened to leave her, Harold grudgingly opened up about what had troubled him.

"I have no family; my parents died a long time ago. However I was engaged briefly," he said as she performed an effleurage technique down his spine. "Her name was Grace. We had been seeing each other for a little over four years... four wonderful years." The tenderness in his voice was palpable. "Then the accident happened." He paused and cleared his throat. "As you know, I was severely injured... but a very good friend of mine was killed."

"Oh, my God," she whispered, completely shocked at the heavy toll that the incident must have placed on him. Survivor's guilt was said to be the worst kind. A memory of her own surfaced: she had once been sideswiped by a truck while she was riding her bicycle; luckily she had walked away with only a few scratches but the driver was never caught. "Was..." she tried to swallow but her mouth had gone dry. If Harold had been the one driving, his remorse could easily be justified. "Was the person responsible ever charged?"

"The other driver was the cause," Harold said bitterly. "He was also killed, so I had no closure. In addition I felt that I couldn't burden Grace with the care of an invalid." His breathing became ragged as he struggled to keep control of his emotions.

To help ease him, Irene switched to a relaxation treatment. At first it was an effort for her to keep her fingers steady, but the familiar procedure helped her retain her focus. "She loved you. I don't think that would have mattered."

He sighed and spent a few minutes composing himself before continuing more calmly. "Perhaps so, but I doubt that I was thinking clearly then. As soon as I was able to stand, I decided that I needed to leave everything behind and start afresh. I couldn't even say a word to her."

Her heart ached for him, but at the same time she wondered why he didn't have the courage to tell his fiancée the reasons behind his sudden departure. She was certain about one thing, though. "You've regretted it ever since."

"Every single day." He breathed deeply and added, "She has moved on, and I believe it would break her heart again if I returned now."

Irene couldn't think of anything further to say; instead she completed the massage in silence and covered his back with warmed cloths. Betrayal by a lover was terrible - something she knew firsthand - but forcing oneself to walk away from one's true love had to be utter torment. Even if Harold ever did go back to Grace, she would definitely be upset... but she might eventually forgive him if she truly loved him. It was a romantic theory, but she didn't voice it because Harold was already distraught and she didn't want him to clam up again.

Instead she changed the subject. "I never regretted leaving my ex-husband. Five years of psychological abuse was enough. As soon as the divorce was final, I moved here. What better place is there to find oneself than a thriving and vibrant metropolis like New York?"

"That's true," he agreed. "How long have you been here?"

"It'll be seven years this autumn. What about you?"

"Too many years to count," he said with some humour. "I was hired immediately after I graduated college by a technology company that was based here, and at the time I felt quite out of place anywhere other than in front of a keyboard."

With a chuckle, she joked, "Harold Wren, the nerd."

He said nothing, but in her mind's eye she envisioned the corner of his mouth curling in an almost-smile.

* * *

Harold didn't keep his next appointment, nor did he inform the clinic of any change. When Irene tried the number that he had given on his information sheet, her call went directly to a voicemail box. She left a message but there was no response after several days.

She went over her sessions with him in her head. Had something they talked about caused him to become too nervous to continue them? Could he have been wary or even ashamed of the fact that she had coaxed him to mention some of his secrets? If so, she owed him an apology even though he was fully aware that whatever they discussed stayed in the massage room. Still, she couldn't let his absence bother her too much; she had many other clients who required her care and she couldn't afford to be anything but professional.

One sunny May afternoon she returned to the clinic after her lunch break and saw a familiar figure standing in the waiting area. For a split second she hoped that it was Harold, but as she got closer she realized that the man was too tall, too bulky, and his hair was the wrong colour. She stopped dead as he turned toward her.

The first thing that came out of her mouth was a flat, "You are not welcome here, Alan."

Louise looked up from her paperwork as she sensed the incipient tension in the air. "He said that he had an emergency and needed to see you."

"Emergency, my butt," she growled.

"Come on, is that really all you have to say after all these years?" Her ex-husband grinned. "I have to hand it to you; you made yourself hard to find."

Once, that charming smile had the power to bewitch her, but now she could see it for the fake that it was. She sent a wide-eyed glance to Louise who immediately understood what she wanted and picked up the phone. Before Louise had a chance to place the call, Alan reached over the desk and obscured the phone's keypad with his large hand.

"Don't worry, that's not necessary," he said smoothly. "I just want to have a chat with my ex-wife."

"I don't." Irene stood her ground despite a tiny voice in the back of her head that urged her to get away from him. "As you can see, I have work to do." She indicated the other people sitting in the waiting area, some of whom were listening to the exchange and were beginning to get concerned.

"Doing what? Taking off people's clothes?" Alan asked with a leer.

"Is there a problem here?" asked a new voice from behind him. A dark-haired man wearing a stylish suit had practically appeared out of nowhere; Irene didn't recall seeing him in the clinic before.

Facing the newcomer, Alan drew himself up to his full six-foot-three height and glared at him. "This is none of your business."

Even though he was a bit shorter and noticeably leaner than Alan, the other man was not intimidated. "It sounded to me as if the lady didn't want you here," he said quietly, but there was a clear undertone of menace. "I suggest that you leave."

Alan took a step toward the man and began to raise a fist in a threatening manner. Irene tried to call out but her voice failed her. Would Alan truly be so stupid as to start a fight in here?

More quickly than Irene's eyes could follow, the man sidestepped, grabbed Alan's arm and painfully twisted it behind his back. "Like I said, you'd better leave." He spoke in the same soft monotone as he had before. "You really don't want to make a fool out of yourself in front of all these people, do you?"

With a grunt and a shake of his head, Alan tugged against the implacable hold, and after a few seconds the man let him go. He flexed his shoulder a few times before he stormed out of the clinic without looking back.

"So sorry for the disturbance," the man in the suit told them. "I doubt he'll be back any time soon."

Irene was too amazed to say anything. Louise slowly stood up and asked, "What if he does come back?"

"Then I might have to make an appointment," the man said casually, but Irene didn't miss the dangerous gleam in his eyes. He put a card bearing a name and phone number on the desk and continued, "This is a friend of mine who works with the NYPD. Give him a call if that guy causes any more trouble." With a curt nod of farewell, he strode out the door before anyone could thank him. There was silence in the room for a long moment.

"Whoa... talk about tall, dark, and dapper," murmured Louise, as much to break the tension as anything else. "Um... Irene, you look like you're going to be sick. Do you want me to cancel you out for the afternoon?"

She swallowed hard against the sour feeling in her stomach. "No," she managed to say. Despite the brief scare of seeing Alan again, she was not going to let him bully her any more. The work often helped her relax as much as it did her clients. "I'll be fine."


	4. Questions

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 4: Questions

By the time Irene finished with her scheduled clients for the day and exited the clinic through the back door, she was far from "fine" as she had predicted earlier. Her mind was brimming over with questions and confusion. How had Alan found her? Who had told him where she was? Did he know exactly where she lived? Why had he sought her out after seven years? Only a few people knew that she was in New York, and they had promised that they wouldn't mention it to anyone who had any ties with Alan or his family. She had also been extremely careful with her online presence so as to not give anything away.

Frustrated, she gritted her teeth. She could not let this get to her. She was no longer the young and naive girl that Alan had beguiled into dating him while she was still mourning her loss of Robert. Nor was she so easily pressured into doing things that went against her own principles. If he thought that she was still that meek and obedient person that he had tried to mould her into, he was totally wrong.

A pigeon flew through her peripheral vision on the left as she strode down the block toward her bus stop. Normally she ignored such distractions, but the events of the afternoon had made her more suspicious. She looked around furtively and spotted Alan sitting in a Jeep parked across the street. Its plates were from out of state and there was a series of stickers on the windshield, indicating that it was a rented vehicle. Damn him, he hadn't given up after all, despite the warning from that man in the suit.

At that moment she realized that in her hurry to leave the clinic she had forgotten the NYPD contact card, and she cursed inwardly. Hoping that Alan hadn't seen her yet, she increased her pace. She could call 911 on her cellphone, but what reason would the police have to arrest him? It wasn't illegal to be parked near the workplace of one's ex unless there was a restraining order in effect, and the one she had placed on him during their divorce settlement had expired long ago.

It was her good fortune that the bus arrived just as she reached the stop, and she was on her way with a sigh of relief. However at one point during the ride she glanced out the window and happened to notice Alan's rented Jeep keeping pace with the bus, and she became even more frightened and angry. What was he trying to prove by chasing her all the way across town? She knew how angry he was, and she feared the consequences of stopping to talk to him.

Hoping to evade him and thus prevent him from finding out where she lived, she purposely descended from the bus two stops before her usual destination. When she had first moved to the neighbourhood she had scoffed at the unkempt bushes and fences along the road, but now she was grateful for their presence as she ducked behind them to keep out of sight. Using them as cover, she slowly crept toward her apartment building.

After a few minutes she could hear the Jeep cruising around the area as Alan searched for her, and her apprehension escalated. She couldn't run; haste attracted attention and he might spot where she was at any moment. Her next problem occurred when she needed to emerge from behind a fence in order to cross an intersection. Anyone driving up the street would easily notice her. Fortunately her luck held as the sound of the Jeep receded into the distance, and she took the opportunity to sprint the remainder of the way home. She would call the police as soon as she got there.

Instead of using the front door she took the extra precaution of entering through the service door at the rear of the building. Once inside she ensured that the door was locked - sometimes the teenagers who lived in the building would purposely leave it open to facilitate clandestine comings and goings - and hurriedly climbed the stairs to get to her second-floor abode. Only when she locked her own door behind her did she relax.

And then let out a startled gasp when she saw someone seated at her kitchen table.

It was Harold.

"What the-" she began breathlessly.

His face showed a stony calm as he held up a hand to interrupt her. "Your birth name is Margaret Irene Thorburn," he recited in a quick monotone. "You graduated from the University of Baltimore in 1993 with a Bachelor of Science in Health Systems Management. After taking a job in a medical office you turned down an acceptance to a graduate program in favour of marrying Alan Graham. You separated in 2003 and initiated divorce proceedings in 2005, citing emotional abuse. In 2007 you moved to New York and legally changed your surname to your grandmother's maiden name. You received your massage therapy certification in 2009 from the New York College of Health Professions."

She gaped at him. Part of her was glad to see him after weeks of hearing nothing from him, but that feeling was replaced by indignation at his blatant invasion of her privacy. "How do you know all that? And what are you doing in my apartment?!"

"Ms. Ashby, information is my business. Recently it came to my attention that your ex-husband has tracked you down because he believes that you withheld a substantial amount of money from him prior to the divorce."

"That stupid issue again?" Contempt for Alan overrode her anger toward Harold. "That was _my_ money; it was an inheritance from my grandmother. Her will stated specifically that it was for me alone, and the court ruled that he had no right to it."

"I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Graham had other ideas," Harold said as he rose stiffly from the chair. "Two years ago he encountered financial difficulties and petitioned the court to re-examine the case. Since you no longer lived in the state of Maryland and therefore were out of their jurisdiction they were not obliged to do so."

She snorted. "I had all my accounts changed, so he wouldn't have been able to access them anyway. He has absolutely no legal or personal connection to me any longer, and he knows that." Sarcasm crept into her tone. "Anyway, what can he do, drag me back?" Suddenly she shuddered and lowered her voice. "_Can_ he do that?"

"I have taken precautions to ensure that he doesn't," Harold said in a calming manner and walked awkwardly past her toward the door.

"You?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "How do you expect to protect me? And where have you been all this time?"

He turned and gave her a look that was tinged with concern before quickly reverting to the emotionless mask. "It would be better for you to not know that, Ms. Ashby."

Perhaps her thought about him being too embarrassed about telling her his secrets was close to the truth, because he was obviously trying to not let anything show. "This might not be the massage room, but I will still say something and you can choose to answer or not. At least I'll know if we had any sort of connection." She paused to let that sink in. "My breakup with Alan was highly unpleasant, as I'm certain you're aware. His family refused to believe that he was abusive toward me; they said 'he wasn't raised that way'. Instead they accepted his lies that I had been seeing someone else on the side. As far as they were concerned, cheating on one's spouse was one of the worst crimes in the book." She scowled crossly at the injustice of it. "They and many people whom I thought had been friends turned their backs on me. So I decided to wash my hands of the lot of them. I settled all my finances, changed my name, and relocated to New York. Only my immediate family and a few close friends know that I'm here, and I've been careful, so I have no idea how Alan was able to find me."

"I discovered that Mr. Graham hired a private investigator about six months ago but had little success with that venture," Harold told her. "I don't know how he located you, but he did, and you're now in danger." He averted his eyes for a moment. She waited patiently, and when he faced her again his facade slowly lifted a bit. "We did have a connection, Ms. Ashby; one that I was quite surprised to find myself having allowed. That was a small part of the reason for my disappearance, but the fact is that my... business dealings have come under increased scrutiny, and so I've had to curtail them to what is absolutely necessary."

The way he said it triggered alarm bells in her head, and she uneasily backed up a few steps. "You're not... a criminal, are you?"

He held out his hands in a gesture meant to reassure her, or perhaps to plead for her understanding. "To some I might be considered such, but my purpose is to help people. And I'm trying to help you, just as you helped me. If you'll let me."

Irene squeezed her eyes shut in consternation. This was too much to deal with at once. Her ex was trying to torment her again, she had somehow become too close to a client with a questionable past, and her world was turning upside-down. She needed some time to set herself straight. Turning away from him, she said in a strangled voice, "Please leave, Mr. Wren."

She heard him limp to the door and open it. "For your own safety, you shouldn't go to work tomorrow." He once again used the same even tone as he had when they had first met. "Even I can't foresee what might happen if Mr. Graham finds you. Please."

When she didn't say anything, he gently closed the door behind him as he departed.


	5. Panic

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 5: Panic

After a restless night Irene was wide awake at dawn, and resigned herself to a long day ahead. She still couldn't absorb Mr. Wren's dire prediction from the previous evening. Her ex-husband might have been an abusive manipulator but she had never known him to be violent, and thought that perhaps he was just trying to scare her into giving him access to her money.

That was not going to happen.

She rode her usual bicycle route, wondering briefly if she would see Harold in the park again, but he wasn't there. Since it was early enough she could easily continue on to the clinic and freshen up before anyone arrived. Or should she just have Louise shuffle the schedules so that the other therapists could take on some of her clients for today? No, she had a job that she had worked hard to achieve, and not even Alan could keep her away from it.

Just in case, she took a circuitous route to her workplace and used the back door to get inside. The exertion of the ride had served to clear her head, and once she had washed and changed, she felt that she could face almost anything.

Louise was surprised to see her. "You're looking chipper today."

"Yeah, a jealous ex will do that," Irene replied sarcastically.

The secretary handed over the clipboard that showed the day's bookings. "I'm sorry to say, your boyfriend's not on the list again." Most of them were regulars except for a first-timer in the one PM slot; Harold's old time, Irene thought ruefully.

She glared at Louise in irritation. "He's—"

"Not your boyfriend, I knew you were going to say that," Louise said with a grin. "But even I could see that you were lit up like a Christmas tree the last time he was here."

Irene saw no point in trying to argue. With a sigh, she went to set up her massage room.

The first half of the day passed without incident. As one PM approached, she was switching the music in the CD player to some smooth jazz when there was a tap on her door. Louise's muffled voice called, "Your next client is here." Quickly straightening a pile of towels, she stuffed a fresh cloth in her belt and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

And froze. Standing in front of her was Harold himself, resplendent as usual in a three-piece suit but his hair was slightly different than she remembered and his sideburns were absent. Why hadn't she noticed that last night? She cleared her throat and found her voice. "Please come in, sir, and I'll tell you about the procedure."

Once he was inside, she shut the door and rounded on him. "You have some explaining to do," she said fiercely. "Why is there a different name on my appointment list? Why did you even show up today, after telling me that I shouldn't be here?"

"To the first question: it was necessary. To the second: I had a feeling that you would ignore my advice. Mr. Graham has been seen in the vicinity, and he might have acquired a firearm." He took a step forward and the worry in his eyes was plain. "You are not safe here."

"You're mistaken," she insisted. "Alan might be boisterous, intimidating, and abusive, but he's not violent. I knew him for years and the worst I ever saw him do was push someone."

He opened his mouth to say something but suddenly his expression changed to one of concentration and he turned slightly to one side. "Always, Mr. Reese... Yes..." His face became deadly serious. "No, we mustn't be seen in the same place if it can be helped." He nodded to himself before saying, "Carry on, Mr. Reese," and tapping his left ear.

It took Irene a few seconds to realise that he had been speaking to someone using a mobile wireless earpiece; perhaps an employee, given the formal appellation. "May I ask what that was about?"

"My associate just informed me that Mr. Graham is approaching. We need to leave, now." He opened the door and extended one arm toward her.

"I'm not going anywh—" She was cut off by a loud bang, which was immediately followed by a tinkling crash that could only have been the implosion of the reception area's tempered glass window. Several people screamed.

Mr. Wren caught her arm, and with more strength than she had attributed to him, pulled her from the room. She managed to snatch her purse out of her cubby on the way by as they hurried down the corridor toward the back of the building.

"Hold it, Maggie, please," Alan's voice echoed off the walls. "All I want is to talk about some money."

Irene stole a glance behind them and saw her ex's large frame blocking the entrance to the hall, and he was holding a small-caliber pistol that was currently pointed at the floor. Her knees buckled as she was overcome by dread, and she leaned on Harold for support. This was not the Alan Graham she thought she knew; something must have pushed him over the edge. "That matter was settled," she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering.

"Come on, honey," Alan coaxed her in a tone that she knew too well as being false charm. "I really don't want to hurt anyone. Please come with me and we'll sit down and work things out."

For a moment, she actually considered it. Who knew what Alan would do if she refused? She wasn't the only one who was in danger here, and she knew that she wouldn't forgive herself if Alan actually shot somebody.

Harold answered for her. "There's nothing to discuss, Mr. Graham," he said as he moved between her and the irrational man. "As her legal counsel I must advise you that—"

"You stay out of this!" Alan roared as he aimed the gun at Harold. "I've had enough of— oof!" Suddenly he sprawled to the floor on his stomach and the pistol was jarred out of his hand by the impact.

The man in the suit stood behind him. "I told you I'd make an appointment," he deadpanned as he stooped to hold Alan down and attempted to pin his flailing arms. "Finch, go!"

They fled the clinic via the rear door and quickly made their way up the alley to where a black Lincoln was parked. Harold slid into the driver's seat as if it were second nature, wincing as his back injury made itself known at an inopportune moment. As soon as Irene had clambered into the car, he started the engine and reversed out toward the street.

The clinic door flew open and Alan stumbled out, only to be confronted once again by the man in the suit. Then she saw no more of them as the car accelerated away from the scene and blended into the midafternoon traffic.

"Legal counsel?" she asked, amazed that Harold could think so quickly while facing a gun.

He was breathing heavily but kept his attention firmly on the road ahead. "I was attempting to stall for time until my associate arrived. Many people will hesitate when threatened with legal action."

Irene panted as she groped through her purse for her cellphone. "I should call the police."

"It's highly likely that your secretary has already done so," said Harold, surprisingly calm after what had just transpired. "Mr. Graham's arrest should be imminent. However I shall take you someplace safe until we're certain that has occurred."

"What about your friend, that guy in the suit? He could have been hurt!"

"Mr. Reese is quite capable of self-defence, so you need not worry."

She stared at him as if he were a stranger. What kind of person was he that he was able to address a gunman without flinching, have such confidence in a partner, and could drive a getaway car so effortlessly as if he did it every day? "I can't believe this is happening," she muttered. "If I hadn't approached you at the park that day..."

"The situation would have developed regardless," Harold said. "Mr. Graham had been searching for you for over a year, so there was no choice you could have made to avoid that."

"Not quite," she contradicted. "My meeting you might have come about partly due to choice, but there was also some measure of chance involved: you happened to be there at the same time as I was. If we could control our lives completely by choice, then you'd still be with Grace and I'd still be with Robert. You and I would never have met."

After a long pause he said, "I'll accept your point."

They drove for another ten minutes in an uneasy silence. Harold responded to his earpiece at one point with a cryptic "Very well," but otherwise revealed nothing until they parked in front of a low-rise brick building. "Here we are."


	6. Respite

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 6: Respite

Although Harold had assured her that the place was absolutely safe, after the events of the past day she had trouble believing it. This whole situation was so screwed up. All she had wanted was to help a wounded man believe that there existed people who were trustworthy. But now they were on the run from her ex-husband, being aided by a highly trained fighter, and hiding in a secret apartment: just like those spy novels that her mother liked to read, only this was far too real.

With trembling hands she opened her purse and withdrew an orange-sized stress ball and began to squeeze it. It was either that or pace repeatedly across the room and potentially damaging the hardwood floor.

Harold returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water, placing his feet carefully so that his awkward gait wouldn't cause the water to spill. "Now I understand why you have such a firm hand, Ms. Ashby," he said.

She allowed herself a slight smile as she put the ball away and accepted a glass. The formality was back. Even in the short time that she had known him she had figured out that it was his way of compartmentalizing his emotions. What he had endured in the past had left him aloof and slow to trust, like a feral cat that would only come out of hiding when it was safe to do so. However it was clear that he completely trusted Mr. Reese's abilities to protect them; why else would he have accompanied her here?

"One has to for the job," she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking, but failed. She cleared her throat, took a sip of water and tried again. "I just needed to do _something_ with my hands or else I'd go crazy." She sighed. "I knew Alan was obsessed with me, which was one of the reasons why I left home. I never thought he'd go this far. Maybe I should have done what he asked, instead of endangering you and your colleague."

He placed his glass on the table and took two uneven steps toward her so he could hold her shoulders in a firm grip. "Had you done that, it was very likely that he would have harmed you," he asserted. "The information that I have is never wrong."

She jerked back against his hold, and he released her. This had gotten way over her head, and she'd had enough. "No matter where your info comes from, how can I trust you any more?" she asked angrily. "One moment we're having a conversation, and the next I'm running for my life. You told me your name was Wren, but on today's appointment book you had a different name. And then Mr. Reese called you Finch. You supposedly work at an insurance company, but when I called to confirm appointments, I always got a voicemail. How many other lies have you told me?"

"Ms. Ashby," he began, but she put her glass down and strode away from him. "Irene." At the sound of her given name she stopped, but didn't turn around. "I never wished to mislead you."

"Omitting the truth amounts to the same thing!"

"Given what you have learned about me through the therapy sessions, you must understand why I'm so careful about trusting people," he said. "Just as you had your reasons for coming to New York, I have my reasons for being anonymous."

She whirled to face him. "Do you expect me to believe that? What, you're hiding from the government or something?"

It was his eyes that told her. He hadn't moved, and his facial expression didn't change. But his eyes... She had dealt with many people throughout her life and had picked up the ability to catch someone in the lie through observation of their subtle body language. Harold was a master of hiding his true self, but his eyes had never lied. Her anger dissipated. If he was truly in such danger, she couldn't blame him for not being completely honest with her.

"My troubles shouldn't concern you," he said firmly. "I suggest that you be mindful of your own."

She was not going to let him avoid the subject any longer. "You're right, Mr. _Finch_," she said, emphasizing the name to sound almost like an insult. "However you once told me that we have free will and need to accept the burdens that come with it."

He frowned before looking squarely at her, his face stern. "The real reason that I left Grace was that the work that I had done was deemed so... sensitive... that anyone who had a mere inkling of its existence was assassinated. Including my best friend." His voice shook. "Please don't ask me anything further, because it will put you in immeasurably more danger than you already are."

Horrified, Irene fell silent. His behaviour now made sense. Harold Wren/Finch/whatever his name was a dead man walking, trying to atone for his past by enabling others to have a future, at the cost of his own. She nodded, unable to speak for a moment, and then cleared her throat. "If we're stuck here for a while, would you mind if I completed your session? After all, we were rather rudely interrupted."

"Really?" he exclaimed, incredulous. "I'm surprised that you can even think of that."

"Well, it'll be good to work off the tension somehow, unless you'd prefer that I rip my stress ball to pieces." She found a stool nearby, set it in front of him and indicated that he should sit. Reluctantly he yielded; sitting and beginning to remove the layers of clothing from his torso while she went to close the heavy drapes on the windows. Outside, the sky was glowing shades of blue in the bright afternoon.

It took her a few minutes to get into a rhythm, and the stresses of the day translated into her probing being a bit harder than it should have been; it was only when Harold grunted in discomfort that she realized her error and eased up. "Sorry."

"That's quite all right. I must say that your therapy has improved my condition a great deal. I know the physical pain will never be completely absent, but it's more tolerable now."

"I'm glad to hear that, Harold." She finished working on his back without another word, and then she picked up his undershirt that lay folded neatly on the table. He stood as she handed it to him, and the sudden thought struck her that he was beautiful. She had seen his unclothed torso many times, but now it felt... different. Certainly he was pale and scarred. But he was also intellectually devastating and hauntingly beautiful. Hoping that he wouldn't recoil from her violation of his personal space, she stepped close to him and put her hands on his bare chest. The warmth of his body and scent of his cologne stirred something in her that she hadn't felt for a long time.

He hesitated before gently removing her hands from him; his undershirt dropped to the floor. "Ms. Ashby... I can't." He squeezed her hands in apology, his eyes downcast. "I appreciate the gesture, but I can't."

"Because of Grace?" He nodded. "I understand, really. True love only happens once in your life. But I believe that you can't relate to what's in your present if you continually dwell in the past or if you're afraid of losing someone else. Let go of what you can't change and hold fast to what you can."

He regarded her with surprise, as if he had never thought in those terms. Abruptly he grimaced and his eyes focused elsewhere. "I don't recall asking for such advice, Mr. Reese," he said firmly.

Irene couldn't help but snicker. She had almost forgotten that there was still an open phone connection to Harold's earpiece, and Reese couldn't resist commenting.

"Attend to your business, Mr. Reese," Harold instructed in a droll tone, "and I shall attend to mine." He clicked off the earpiece and removed it, placing it on the table.

Gently she stroked his cheek; it was rough from his whiskers that were starting to grow out. Then she stepped back. "I shan't ask again because I respect you. If you ever change your mind, the offer still stands."

He actually smiled ever so slightly. "Haven't you said that you didn't do 'those' types of sessions?"

"That's correct. Anything else would be on my own time, and because I wanted to. Keeping someone like you in my heart would be a blessing, even if once is all we have. We're both broken in our own ways, and I'd like to think that we could help each other heal."

The change in Harold's stance was noticeable when at last he let down his carefully orchestrated personal barriers. Tentatively he moved forward and brushed his lips on hers, inviting her response, and she accepted whole-heartedly. Their kiss deepened, and the embers that had kindled inside her leapt into flames. She could sense the same from him.

When they broke the kiss he murmured, "Have we lost all judgment?"

"I would attribute it to panic."

He chuckled.

Ever fastidious, as they retired to the bedroom he insisted that their discarded clothing was neatly hung over chairs. Then there was no need for further decorum as she helped him ease himself down to the mattress. She moved with him, answered his desires, and ensured that he was as comfortable as possible within the whirlwind of their ardor.

When he whispered Grace's name during an intense moment and tears of remorse flowed, she soothed him. Most people would be completely repulsed if they heard their partner mention a previous lover in the midst of intimacy, but not her, not this time: because she _understood_. She lovingly smoothed the moisture away and held him, sharing his pain and letting it out through herself. His eyes silently pleaded for her forgiveness and she gave it in the form of kisses and caresses that served to reconnect him with the present once again.

Finally when they were united and striving to reach that exquisite release, both knew that each of them was on the path to healing, and each possessed a piece of the other's heart forever.


	7. Trust

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 7: Trust

Waking was a languorous process, made even more difficult by the fact that the only light in the room was a glittering orange sunbeam that had found its way between the curtains. Irene felt a slight movement in the bed, and she gingerly reached out to touch the warm body of the man who was nestled beside her.

She hitched herself up on an elbow and smiled. Harold looked serene, free for the moment from all the tumult that awaited him outside this room. After their lovemaking he had cuddled her protectively and pulled a light blanket over them. Even in that he was a true gentleman, completely the opposite of some other men she had known who had practically ignored her as soon as the act was done.

He roused as if he sensed that he was being watched, and stiffened in alarm.

"It's okay, Harold," she said and lay a calming hand on his shoulder.

His eyes blinked a few times and he gazed at her in awe as he remembered that he was actually in bed with a woman for the first time in years. "Irene."

Her smile broadened as she noted his unhesitant use of her given name, and she leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Welcome to the present. How does it feel to be part of the world again?"

"After what I and my friends have done, I thought the world to be too ordinary and confining." He tenderly cupped her face with one hand. "You have reminded me that there's still beauty in it, if one allows oneself to see. I cannot thank you enough for that."

"You don't need to." She put feather-light kisses on his temple and his cheek before beginning to disentangle herself from the blanket, only to be taken completely off guard when he rolled over and pinned her underneath him with an honest-to-goodness _grin_, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

What might have happened next was relegated to their imagination when Harold's phone buzzed insistently. With a disappointed sigh he sat up and fumbled for his suit jacket, and then withdrew the phone from the inside pocket and turned on the speaker. "Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"I hope I didn't interrupt something, Finch," the man's smooth voice sounded.

Harold didn't react: this was evidently bantering to which he was quite accustomed. "Not at all," he said in his usual monotone. "As you well know, I am wont to work late. I assume by your call that something has happened?"

"I've seen the ex-husband. He was walking out of the precinct grinning like a Cheshire cat, so I figure that he must have posted bail."

Irene gasped. "So soon?" During the separation and divorce she had educated herself in some of the finer points of law, in case Alan tried to undermine her in court. "I thought that a person accused of a felony was held for at least 24 hours pending a hearing."

"That is the normal procedure," Harold confirmed. "It's possible that Mr. Graham has contacts that we weren't aware of who have enabled him to circumvent it."

"Which leaves us with a problem," Reese said. "We all have _regular_ jobs to do—" Despite the tinny quality of the speaker Irene could hear the distaste in his voice. "—and our emergency absences today probably won't go over well. As much as I'd prefer it, I can't be out here all night."

"In which case," said Harold with a sidelong glance at Irene, "we shall have to arrange for him to visit us."

* * *

Less than an hour later as night descended, Harold parked his black Lincoln in one of the guest spots at Irene's apartment building. He opened the passenger door for her and then escorted her to the entrance, appearing for all like they were simply returning from a dinner date.

She invited him upstairs for a nightcap and he graciously accepted. Once inside her apartment, she went into the kitchen and quickly produced plates of crackers, cheeses, and sliced vegetables along with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. She was hungry; she hadn't eaten since early that afternoon, and was certain that Harold hadn't either.

"You have good taste in beverages," he complimented when he noticed the wine.

"Thank you. I don't often drink alcohol," she informed him as she searched through a side table drawer. "That was a gift from my colleagues last year and I never had the occasion to open it. I decided that tonight would be a good time." She handed him a corkscrew. "Would you please do the honours?"

He expertly opened the bottle and poured out two glasses before re-corking it and putting it aside. Then he handed Irene a glass and raised his own. "To... connections."

She glanced quizzically at him for his choice of words, and then judged that it was appropriate. "To connections." The next few minutes were spent in companionable silence as they dined. "Assuming this works," she said, "I'm seriously considering a move. I wouldn't feel comfortable with Alan knowing where I live, even if he does end up in prison."

"As you should be, given his mental instability," agreed Harold with a nod. "However I must apologize for disrupting your security in such a way."

With a dismissive wave she responded, "There's no need; as you told me, this is necessary. It's just going to be tough finding a new place within my budget."

There was a loud knock at the door.

Startled, she got up and looked through the door's peephole. "It's him," she said shakily. He obviously had found the open (again) back entrance because the door buzzer hadn't sounded. "That was fast." She squinted, trying to get a better view of him despite the peephole's distortion. "I don't see the gun."

"It would have been confiscated when he was arrested earlier," Harold assured her. "Remember, all you need to do is keep him talking until the police arrive. I'll be in the bedroom; he mustn't see me here or he might be angered further." He limped out of sight.

Another knock, louder than the first. Taking a deep breath and setting her face into a steely expression, she opened the door. "You are not welcome here, either."

Alan barged past her. "I don't care. I went to a lot of trouble to talk to you, but you ran away and had me arrested."

"It's what you deserved," she snapped as she closed the door. "You terrorized a clinic full of people, so what was I supposed to do?"

"Well, maybe you could explain the meaning of that cryptic message that I got on my Alchementary app, telling me to meet you tonight? How did you even know I had a profile there?"

"I didn't! Whatever hacker did that must've had a sick sense of humour." It had actually been Harold's idea to plant a false message, and Irene was certain that Alan wouldn't have been able to resist. "But that's not the point. You were a bully before, and you're a public menace now. Did you threaten my family too, to get them to tell you that I was in New York?"

"I'm not that stupid," he scoffed. "Did you think that I didn't have friends too? Even though your family wasn't talking, we all heard rumours. But I wasn't able to put things together until someone I know happened across a series of posts on an obscure nerdy online forum between you and some chick named Jan."

She knew what he was referring to: it was a fan site for a TV program that she had once liked. "I haven't posted on that forum for years. Nobody there knows anything."

Alan laughed: a harsh grating sound. "Your info wasn't valid any more of course, but Jan's was. I used that to find her on social media and she was happy to tell me about other people you might have been in contact with. After that it was simple to track down that bastard you left me for." He smirked. "Six degrees of separation and all that."

"Karl was a good friend! He had nothing to do with my leaving you," Irene said hotly. "So you still believe your own lies? That's pathetic."

His eyes flashed darkly. "You're the one who lied! Everyone figured you were seeing him, but I couldn't prove it for the court. But I got my revenge anyway by spreading a few online rumours of my own, and then confronted him to find out where you were."

Irene was outraged. "You BLACKMAILED Karl?! I never thought you would stoop that low! I'm glad I left you; you're disgusting!"

"Not as much as you are," he boasted. "Now that I have proof of adultery, I can have the court force you to give me that money that you owe me."

"Hearsay and forced confessions are not proof!"

"Says you. I have a pal who has a way with words. Once he spins the info, I'll have an unbreakable case." He smiled and turned on the charm. "All you need to do, babe, is come home." Suddenly he stepped uncomfortably close to her, and his voice turned cold. "So I can ruin you the way you ruined me."

There was a commotion in the hallway outside, and someone pounded on the door. "NYPD, open up!"

In an instant, Alan's demeanour changed from threatening to panicky. He turned as if to flee, but realized that there was nowhere in the small apartment for him to run. Instead he reached out toward Irene as if to grab her, but she had anticipated such a move and threw herself at his legs.

Alan flung out his arms but couldn't stop himself from tumbling over her. He hit the floor heavily just as the unlocked door banged open and three heavily-equipped police officers stepped in. The first two immediately subdued him and handcuffed him while the third stepped past him and ensured that Irene wasn't harmed. "Alan Graham, you are under arrest for breach of bail conditions, reckless endangerment, and willful violation of a civil restraining order administered by the State of New York. You have the right to remain silent..."

As Alan was being led away, the remaining officer helped her stand. "Ma'am, do you wish to come down to the precinct and make a statement at this time?"

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. Yes, she was safe now, but still rather jittery. "Yes, I do intend to make a statement. Please let me get my purse first." The officer waited as she picked up her purse, and then accompanied her out of the apartment. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't chance going back in and potentially giving away Harold's presence. She had to trust him one more time.


	8. Closure

Person of Interest and all character names therein are owned by Warner Brothers, Bad Robot, and Kilter Films. All characters are fictional and resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chance Meetings  
by Sailor Chronos

Chapter 8: Closure

Irene stood watching the gulls wheeling in the clear sky above the East River, at the same place where she had first met Harold. The time seemed to have passed so quickly; had it really been almost three months ago?

The plan that Harold had come up with to lure her ex-husband out had been crazy to say the least, but he had told her it was the best he could do given his limited resources. Anything could have gone wrong: Alan could somehow have procured another gun, he could have lashed out in his fury — he had almost taken her hostage but for her quick thinking — or he might have discovered Harold in her apartment which would have given him more fodder for his plot to ruin her. It was sheer luck that everything went as well as it did. More amazing was that Harold somehow had influence within the police department and could get the restraining order put through so quickly.

After Alan had been arrested the second time, she had spent several hours giving her statement to the police and filling out paperwork. They were confident that no amount of influence or legal trickery would be able to help him get out of his just punishment this time, regardless of his mental state. She still didn't understand why he had behaved in such a fashion but in the end it wasn't her concern. It was his family that she pitied, in that they would have to deal with the consequences of his folly.

As she had half-expected, Harold wasn't at her apartment when she got home. To her surprise the place had been meticulously cleaned up, to appear that nobody had ever been present.

Except for a half-full bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.

Both Harold and Mr. Reese disappeared after that night. Even though she knew why, and that it was very unlikely that she would ever see either of them again, she returned to this spot on a semi-regular basis in hope that one day a man in a three-piece suit would be waiting.

She wasn't a fool to believe herself to be in love with him. That afternoon they had shared had forged a bond between them but they both had known that would happen from the start. Despite continual attempts to put the events behind her, she couldn't help but miss him: the discussions of literature, the deadpanned jokes, all of it. It would have given her closure if he had at least reiterated his feelings on the matter.

A clue had arrived in the form of a parcel that came in the mail a week following her ex's pre-trial court hearing. The contents were simply a key and a small piece of paper on which was written, in Harold's handwriting, an address that turned out to be the same as the one he had given on his information sheet during his first visit to the clinic. The affable landlord told her when she spoke with him that the previous tenant had to move suddenly for work-related reasons and had recommended her to take over the lease. One look at the spacious place was all she needed to make up her mind, and it didn't take her long to finalize the documents and make plans to move in.

She heard a rustle of fabric as someone moved to her side, and a familiar mellow voice said, "Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you."

Suffused with delight, she completed his apt Stephen King quote. "And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure." She turned to see Harold regarding her with interest. "I knew that I shouldn't expect to see you, but I couldn't help wishing it."

"To be truthful Ms. Ashby, Bear and I—" he indicated a nearby bench, next to which a large brown and black dog was sitting obediently, "—have walked past here occasionally because I had hoped to speak to you." He was the picture of stoicism as he had been when they had first met. "Please understand that I'm unable to make further appointments with your clinic for the time being. The difficulties I face are still very real, and I don't want you to become involved."

Although his words were sincere she wasn't deceived by his attitude: he too wanted a resolution but he couldn't say it publicly. So she played along. "You're much improved since you began therapy, so it's not necessary for you to continue unless the condition worsens." Her throat closed up; this was more difficult that she thought it would be. She swallowed hard and went on, "On behalf of the clinic, thank you for your generosity. It has been a real pleasure getting to know you, and I hope that someday we'll meet again."

His guise melted for a moment as he reached out and clasped her hand firmly in a handshake. "A friend of mine once said: when you find someone who connects you to the world, you become someone different, someone better. Purely by chance, by some unknown serendipitous chance, you found me. And you helped make me better." Reluctantly he released her hand, and lowered his voice. "I shall miss you."

Irene had an almost overwhelming desire to pull him into her arms one more time. Instead she stepped closer and clasped his shoulder in a friendly manner. "As I shall also miss you, my dear Mr. Finch," she whispered.

Harold pursed his lips before murmuring into her ear, "Even that's not my real name."

She slowly backed away. "It doesn't matter," she averred, and his eyes widened in astonishment. "To me, you are the man who owns the world but is so very apart from it. The man whom I greatly respect and hold in my heart. If there comes a time when you find yourself needing to connect to the world once again, you know where to find me."

The corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly and he nodded.

They both turned and went their separate ways. On a nearby lamp post, almost obscured from their viewpoint by the leafy branches of a tree, a security camera watched. 

THE END

Sailor Chronos  
July 2014

I would like to thank the following people:

My husband, as always, for his support.

The Person of Interest community on FanFiction dot Net for the inspiration to write this story and for pushing me to continue.


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